“And so, the coin was thrown in the air, turning many times, landing sometimes heads and other times tails.” - Ernesto Che Guevara.
In thinking how to recount my week in Lima, already the week before last, it’s difficult to know where to even start so I’ll just go back to the beginning. I hadn’t planned to stay more than a few nights before heading on but since I negotiated for a free week’s stay at the hostel if I worked the bar a few nights I decided a couple more days to rest and plan couldn’t hurt. In truth I didn’t do much of either as I ended up befriending several other travelers among the ever changing hostel gaggle. My first night on bar duty, Tuesday, I started chatting with a lovely young couple, he from England and she Scotland, a frenchwoman by way of Germany, an Englishman, a Canadian and a Californian, the last of which whom had become something of a staple at the hostel as he’d been staying there in exchange for language lessons since unfortunately being mugged of his passport and bank cards.
The next morning some of us reconnected at breakfast and decided to all walk down to Miraflores together as I recommended they see the ruins there and I was itching to try my luck at surfing in the Peruvian pacific. Back in the room, I met another newly arrived bunkmate, also from England, whom I convinced to come along on the journey and even though she had just flown in that morning she was up for the adventure. The best thing about hostels is you never know who you’re going to meet or where it’s going to lead and I couldn’t have been happier that I extended the invite because after a night of fruitless recruiting I finally had a surfing buddy.
The next morning some of us reconnected at breakfast and decided to all walk down to Miraflores together as I recommended they see the ruins there and I was itching to try my luck at surfing in the Peruvian pacific. Back in the room, I met another newly arrived bunkmate, also from England, whom I convinced to come along on the journey and even though she had just flown in that morning she was up for the adventure. The best thing about hostels is you never know who you’re going to meet or where it’s going to lead and I couldn’t have been happier that I extended the invite because after a night of fruitless recruiting I finally had a surfing buddy.
Even though Miraflores is a neighborhood within Lima proper, it’s a solid hour/hour and a half walk but it buildings all become a blur when you’re walking and talking with newfound friends. We moseyed on down like a gringo parade, escorted the others to the ruins and then parted ways. Quite different from Philly’s grid layout, Lima is a hot mess of ever-changing roads and disorienting avenues that are even harder to navigate when you’re lost in conversation. Needless to say Sanchia and I got a bit turned around on our way to the beach originally but managed to get ourselves back on track. Once at the coast though we encountered another obstacle of getting down to sea level from the 500 or so meter coastal cliff drop and since the normal walkway was under construction we found the detour and continued down.
Once at the bottom we were immediately greeted by Manuel and Josef, the guys at the first tent on the rocky beach. We agreed on a price, slipped into some wetsuits, grabbed our boards and headed out. The beach was completely without sand and was instead littered with gorgeous, rounded stones of varying sizes, colors and patterns. The water was bitingly cold or simply “refreshing” as Manuel put it and after a few tries of my ever-problematic lower back spasming I was finally able to work through the pain, stand up and even ride a few waves. Gnarly. After the surf, Sanchia and I walked down to Barranco, another Lima neighborhood just south of Miraflores that also borders the coast and found a restaurant: a bit of fried calamari for me, spaghetti and sauce for her and pilsners for us both. Lost in scintillating conversation and good food the two and a half hours I had before having to return to work the hostel bar suddenly transformed into 15 minutes. On the street we decided to grab a taxi back for only 10 soles, making it back by the skin of my teeth!
Once at the bottom we were immediately greeted by Manuel and Josef, the guys at the first tent on the rocky beach. We agreed on a price, slipped into some wetsuits, grabbed our boards and headed out. The beach was completely without sand and was instead littered with gorgeous, rounded stones of varying sizes, colors and patterns. The water was bitingly cold or simply “refreshing” as Manuel put it and after a few tries of my ever-problematic lower back spasming I was finally able to work through the pain, stand up and even ride a few waves. Gnarly. After the surf, Sanchia and I walked down to Barranco, another Lima neighborhood just south of Miraflores that also borders the coast and found a restaurant: a bit of fried calamari for me, spaghetti and sauce for her and pilsners for us both. Lost in scintillating conversation and good food the two and a half hours I had before having to return to work the hostel bar suddenly transformed into 15 minutes. On the street we decided to grab a taxi back for only 10 soles, making it back by the skin of my teeth!
Working the bar in Lima was basically like hanging out and drinking with my newfound hostel mates, only I was getting free accommodations for pouring the drinks as well as consuming them. Not a bad gig as I said before, but dangerous in that I ended up drinking more than I probably would have otherwise. After shutting down the bar that night, we all went out for more drinks and ended up at a Peruvian karaoke bar in Lince, located between central Lima and Miraflores, where we sand and danced with some older Peruvian ladies who were very serious about their karaoke. It was an absolute blast, but unfortunately for me the later it got, the more stuffed up my nose became and I could feel an unavoidable illness coming on.
Nevertheless, we closed down the karaoke bar and ventured across the street to a casino where we had just one beer more and collectively played a few rounds of roulette, or rather where the two irishmen Dara and John played a few rounds while the rest of the lot drunkenly observed. By the time we started back toward the hostel it was about six in the morning and the sun was just beginning to breach the horizon. Needless to say, I awoke only three or so hours later to an utterly debilitating cold, the contracted bug compounded by my stupidity and want to partake in the shenanigans of the previous evening. I would be stuck in bed more or less for two days before reviving, unfortunately not in time for the “splurge” reservations the jolly Californian cicerone and fellow foodie, Patrick, and I had made for a restaurant in Miraflores owned by world-renowned Le Cordon Bleu chef Gastón Acurio.
Nevertheless, we closed down the karaoke bar and ventured across the street to a casino where we had just one beer more and collectively played a few rounds of roulette, or rather where the two irishmen Dara and John played a few rounds while the rest of the lot drunkenly observed. By the time we started back toward the hostel it was about six in the morning and the sun was just beginning to breach the horizon. Needless to say, I awoke only three or so hours later to an utterly debilitating cold, the contracted bug compounded by my stupidity and want to partake in the shenanigans of the previous evening. I would be stuck in bed more or less for two days before reviving, unfortunately not in time for the “splurge” reservations the jolly Californian cicerone and fellow foodie, Patrick, and I had made for a restaurant in Miraflores owned by world-renowned Le Cordon Bleu chef Gastón Acurio.
However we still managed to get our fill of Peruvian delicacies the next day, my last day in Lima, at Mistura, an epic food festival held annually in on of Lima’s coastal districts. There we exchanged our already colorful soles for even more colorful festival monopoly money and perused the many tents featuring every type of Peruvian cuisine imaginable. Lima is known for it’s culinary scene throughout South America and the festival eats were no exception. I split some ceviche, quinoa veggie burger, chicken gyro with Pat and Alex, one of two english gals that replaced some of the others who had moved on. The ceviche here is mush more simple than that of the decadent interpretations found in Philly, served in a simple citrus-fish cure with sliced red onions, herbs, a slice of sweet potato, toasted corn nuts and cooked corn, the tender lump cuts of fish are something to behold. The peruvian yellow corn (as there are a variety of kinds) is also like none found in the states- large, thick and starchy is no surprise that it’s a dietary staple here. Certainly a world of difference compared to the New Jersey sweet corn I’d usually be chowing down on all summer.
Walking around we were able to also sample a variety of meats where we thought we had unintentionally had our first bit of alpaca, which turned out to be tapir, an incredibly stringy, gamey eat. At the festival was also “Beer World” with a small exhibition of beer equipment, steins, and old labels/ads. Inside was a large stage with a an enthusiastic emcee sporting a blue sequined blazer and quite a mullet, surrounded by pop up bars of various brews, mostly the popular labels of Cuzqueña, Pilsen, San Juan and a rare few local Peruvian craft brews.
As the festival began to wind down, we left beer world to explore the food market a bit more where we sampled coffees and chocolates before all six of us piled into a taxi, doubled up on laps and limbs, back to the hostel. The night was still young though and once back at the hostel, five of us decided we weren’t done yet and headed south, ending up at our infamous karaoke bar from the other night where we loaded up the machine with songs, ordered a few pitchers of cheap lager and got down to business. We carried on in ridiculous, drunken tones while my still-ill voice strained to keep the melody, finishing with an epic group rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody joined by a group of local guys. Afterward the group parted ways and Pat, Alex and I grabbed a ‘combi’ bus back north to the hostel where, this time, I was snuggly in bed by a much more reasonable hour of 3 am. Not a bad note to leave Lima on.
